


A Stolen Moment

by LucyLovecraft



Category: Ogniem i Mieczem | With Fire and Sword (1999), Trylogia | The Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creative Use of Kontusz Sashes, Forbidden Love, Gratuitous Period Costumes, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Roughhousing, Sex on Furniture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 21:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14222490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyLovecraft/pseuds/LucyLovecraft
Summary: Fill for Tumblr prompt "moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed".Standalone snapshot from a hypothetical AU in which Jan was sent in an arranged marriage to Khmelnytsky (all of this being meadowlarkx/am_fae's intellectual property), but Jan and Bohun end up in a serious Lancelot/Guinevere situation.





	A Stolen Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Unedited, quick little fill. Mostly this is just gratuitous boys kissing. Unedited, as I said. And seriously gratuitous.  
> Recommended listening: [“Quick Musical Doodles” by Two Feet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_Wxly8Dwo8).

“The door,” Jan gasped.

If Bohun heard, he did not show it. The Cossack held Jan fast, palms pressed to the sharp curve of Jan’s hips, keeping him close. His breath was warm on Jan’s neck, hitching and unsteady. Every spot Bohun pressed soft lips to, every place his moustache scratched coarse and rough, every touch seemed to leave a glowing, molten trail across Jan’s skin.

Jan himself forgot the door for a moment. Each plane of Bohun’s body was an immanent miracle, infinitely familiar but always new each time: the small of his back, the slim line of his waist, the curve of strong shoulders, the touchingly vulnerable warmth of the nape of his neck. How easily he lost himself in such things.

Fragmentary poetries fell from Bohun’s lips, a hundred loving paeans abandoned and sacrificed so he could press new kisses to Jan’s throat. Bohun did not know what he was saying—he simply knew each word was true. He knew also that he wanted this, would die for this, would have offered all that he had to buy each new moment. Instead, each new moment simply came, perfect and beyond price: all he had asked for and more.

If only such moments were not so few and far between.

If only love had not made them thieves of time, and taken all their oaths from them.

Bohun forced his hand to leave the haven of Jan’s warmth and he reached for the door, pulling it shut and pushing the latch into place. He was not fool enough to think them safe, but he was too drunk with love to feel the peril. More than that, even, was the fact that fear was as yet so new thing to Bohun that it could still hardly find purchase in his heart. He had never truly felt fear for himself before, but he no longer thought of himself as himself alone: somehow Jan had become half of all that he was, and as much as Jan’s danger terrified him, Bohun also now knew that his own dangers were a torment to Jan.

And they risked so much.

There was the fragile peace between the Polish gentry and the Cossacks, with only a scrap of signed parchment standing between them and civil war. There was the goodwill price of that peace: a nobleman wed to Khmelnytsky. There was that nobleman’s honour and oath, given in the name of peace, his prince, and the Commonwealth. There was the threat of Khmelnytsky himself, whose own private grievances—it was said—had begun the bitter, bloody conflict.

Bohun knew that his own life would be worth little if they were ever discovered. How easy it would be for Khmelnytsky to order him to ride out to his death as King David had done with Uriah the Hittite, and with better cause.

All this they risked, fools that they were, so they might know a few moments of perfect happiness. Of all the treasures Bohun had bought at the price of danger and death, amongst all the priceless prizes he had stolen from khans and kings, Jan’s lips were the most perilous.

Jan fitted his palm to the line of Bohun’s cheek, turning his head to kiss him with those lips that could cost lives, loves, honour, and perhaps salvation itself. But how could Bohun fear perdition when he could taste Heaven and hold it, warm and bright, in the circle of his arms?

Jan was paradise, Bohun thought. Yet now he became vividly aware of how little of Jan’s skin he could touch. So much, hidden away under layers of linen and wool.

Reaching for Jan’s sash, he succeeded only in tugging Jan close against him. Jan caught Bohun’s face between his hands and kissed him with such force that Bohun staggered back, caring only that their lips should not part. He felt himself strike something hard—a table, he thought—and dimly heard things crashing to the floor. Fighting to find his footing, he succeeded in raising himself so he lay flat atop it, or would have, had Jan still not been holding him up and pressing such sweetly rough kisses to his lips.

Bohun did eventually manage to find his feet to some degree, with the result that his thigh lay between Jan’s, and Jan’s sharp gasp and parted lips were a more than ample reward for his struggle. Those parted lips also seemed a perfect invitation for a deeper kiss. Bohun pressed his tongue into Jan’s mouth, relishing the muffled moan as Jan began to move against him.

Even so, Bohun’s hands remembered their task: pulling loose the sash at Jan’s waist. When that was done, he hissed in frustration, finding the kontusz too great an obstacle.

“Up,” Bohun said hoarsely. “Clothes.”

Jan ceased to bodily pin Bohun to the table with his weight but seemed unable to stop kissing him. Bohun forgot his purpose again for a time, his hands searching under Jan’s collar, feeling the scrape of evening stubble along the column of the other man’s neck.

In time, he remembered once more.

Bohun pushed Jan back, standing, helping him to struggle out of kontusz and zupan both. When at last Jan stood before him in only shirt and britches, the Pole seemed to have realised how unsatisfactory it was that Bohun himself was still clothed. Unfortunately he realised this as Bohun was already urging him towards the bed, and Bohun’s eager growl turned to a curse as an ill-timed combination of pushing and pulling sent the Cossack sprawling over an inlaid chest and onto the floor, bringing Jan down after him.

Jan opened his mouth to apologise, but Bohun was already tugging Jan’s shirt loose from his trousers, and then his hands deprived Jan of the power of speech entirely.

Pleased with the results of his efforts though he was, Bohun eventually stopped. Seizing an unfair advantage, he moved as though to sit up. Jan fought back with a pleased hum that turned into an exclamation of concern as Bohun’s head knocked back against the foot of a wardrobe.

“Are you all right?” Jan asked.

“Yes,” Bohun snapped, entirely beyond minor irritations like head injuries.

Jan ran his hand over the back of Bohun’s head. The Cossack drew in a deep breath, eyes shut. As Jan combed through his hair Bohun sighed, leaning into the touch. Finding a sticky warmth under his fingers, Jan withdrew his hand to examine them, despite Bohun’s cry of complaint.

“You’re bleeding!” Jan told him.

Despairing of making Jan focus on the important things, Bohun pushed him off and scrambled to his knees, pulling Jan with him.

“No, you’re bleeding, idiot!” Jan protested, laughing, holding out his bloodied fingers as evidence. “Let me at least take a—”

But when Bohun took his fingers into his mouth, Jan’s protestation trailed off into a garbled cry that might have included the name “Jurko” but, then again, might not have.

Jan swayed on his knees, but Bohun slid close to steady him. He pressed Jan to him, wrapping an arm around his waist even as he continued to do wonderfully interesting things with his mouth that, Jan knew by experience, Bohun was very capable of doing to parts other than fingers.

“God,” Jan gasped.

 _“Mmmhmmm,”_ Bohun agreed, glancing up at Jan’s flushed face from beneath dark lashes.

Jan met that blue-green gaze and let out a shaky laugh, breathless, utterly overwhelmed. Then his eyes snapped back to Bohun’s mouth: watching the flicker of a tongue seen as well as felt over skin, and the deliberate way the lips parted, opening to take his fingers in again.

When Bohun was at last satisfied that he would hear no more of head wounds, he got to his feet and pulled a dazed and now delightedly pliant Jan with him. He tried to draw Jan after him to the bed, but Jan rediscovered his motor functions at that moment and caught Bohun about the waist, half-carrying him the last few feet.

Jan pushed Bohun down onto the bed with a triumphant grin and climbed after him, straddling his hips, very much appreciating the interested flash of Bohun’s eyes as Jan deliberately undid the sash from about his lover’s waist. Never one to disappoint, Jan ran the sash slowly through his hands in a would-be thoughtful manner, and saw Bohun swallow.

Jan grinned.

“Do I have your surrender, _ataman_?” Jan asked, eyes bright with amusement.

Bohun did not even attempt to speak, but merely nodded.

“Good.”

Jan caught up his wrists, struggling somewhat to make the heavy fabric of the sash into a neat knot, but doing well enough for his purposes.

“Feeling ready to submit to the Commonwealth?” he murmured in Bohun’s ear, catching an earring between his teeth.

The yelp of protest this elicited turned into a decidedly needy groan as Jan leant all his weight forward, pinning Bohun’s bound wrists to the bed.

“I shall take that as a ‘yes’,” Jan said. “Let us begin.”


End file.
